None Of Your Beeswax
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Sam and Dean get mixed up in something rather old and waxy that doesn't concern them. Don't you hate it when that happens? Set during happier times. No spoilers for s4, 5, 6 or 7. Rated T. Enjoy.
1. A Clay In The Life

One

A Clay In The Life

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><p>.<p>

Claire Benton was twenty-six, naturally brunette, and one of life's hopeless dreamers. She often longed for days of wild romance or fantastic adventure, involving either pointy-eared, bow-carrying elves or pointy-eared, blue-shirt wearing aliens. It just depended on the day.

Abstemious of non-alcoholic weekends and jealous of the vibrancy of all places that her small apartment was not, Friday had nonetheless persuaded her to eschew the company of her friends and stay in to watch a DVD. It had managed this through nothing more than presenting her with a work day full of rude telephone customers and an unsympathetic manager. Now home and hovering by the criminally organised bookshelf of DVDs, wondering which pointy-eared hero to attach herself to for the next few hours, she caught sight of a sudden, slick movement right in the corner of the window.

She pouted. "If that's you, Mr Tinkles, I am so not in the mood for you miaowing at my window," she called, already going to the open-plan kitchen and picking up a dishcloth. She carried it back to the window by her DVDs, flinging the pane of glass open and looking out. "Beat it, you mangy excuse for a hot water bottle!" she hurled.

The tin roofing just outside her flat, two floors up and understandably confused by her apparent anger toward it, simply watched her fume. Her eyes went over the roofing very, very carefully, inspecting all the corners. Finding nothing to antagonise her further, she leant back inside and pulled the window shut securely. She bolted the bottom and the top before tossing the cloth to lie over her shoulder, waiter-style.

"Friggin' cats," she muttered to herself, turning back to the bookshelf. She reached out and took down the first DVD case, not caring what it was. Cracking it open, she found it to be a rather good film from 2009 with a very nice pointy-eared man in an impressively-fitted blue uniform. She wasted no time getting the disc in the player and retreating to her large sofa with the TV and the DVD player remote.

As the disc cycled through the usual FBI warnings and assorted greetings regarding the disadvantages of pirating, the corner of her eye glimpsed a shape. She jumped in shock.

She grabbed for the offending creature. Her hand had a good hold - and then she realised it was only the dishcloth, still lying over her shoulder. She cursed herself and got up, taking the cloth back to the kitchen and stopping by the fridge on her way past, her eyes straining to check the progress of the film's opening frames as she snagged the glass neck of a beer bottle.

"Ooh wait - don't let me miss the Kelvin!" she cried at the TV, already whisking the fridge shut and hurrying back to the sofa. She bounced down to the seat just as familiar pings and trills echoed from her 5.1 Dolby system, and she grinned as the story began to unfold. Her eyes, glued to the screen, made it clear her hands would have to operate without their input. She twisted off the beer cap in slow motion, already completely engrossed in the onscreen drama playing itself out in perfect audio and visual glory.

So she didn't see the minuscule shadow on the floorboards, slipping stealthily across the surface of the floor. It ducked and ninja-rolled under the sofa, coming to an awe-inspiring heroic pose of a stop just to the right of the arm. It slunk in slight retreat to press its back against the side, listening for movement.

All it heard was the sympathetic gasps and muttered moans of the sofa's only occupant. A flickering, pounding _something_ caught its attention and it edged silently to the corner of the sofa. And there, in the middle of Claire Benton's front room, it found itself completely and utterly captured by the amazing action happening _right there_ in front of it.

All other thoughts were purged. The next two hours flew by. Rather the same way as the make-believe vessels on the forty-two inch screen that, to Claire's stowaway's smaller viewpoint, may as well have been the entire universe itself.

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"Well," said Sam, straightening up from a particularly bone-popping crouch, "we'll have to take a closer look before we can start coming up with any theories." He turned to look at the grey-haired police chief watching him with her arms folded.

"If you can come up with _anything_ out of all this, I'll start believing in all those flying pig stories," she grumped. She nodded to the tall, black-suited Winchester, and then walked past him to reunite her backside with the driver's seat of her police car, three floors down and fifty yards across the car park.

Sam watched her leave then turned and eyed his brother. Dean was crouching over the strange dollop, a pen in his right hand, digging at the melted mess on the carpet tiles.

"Any ideas?" Sam asked, pushing his own pen and notepad into his inside jacket pocket.

"I know exactly what did this," Dean said with a nod, flicking molasses-like goo from the end of his pen before pushing himself back to his feet. Sam tilted his head, dreading the next remark from his elder brother's mouth. Dean turned and looked at him. "Godzilla."

Sam's eyebrows took a crouch themselves, leaping for his fringe with everything they had. They contented themselves with the upper reaches of his forehead. "Right," he said cheerfully. "Yeah, I can see that." He turned and looked behind him, to the front doors to the large, open-plan office. "Godzilla comes all the way over from Japan without anyone seeing him, comes to the customer service phone centre of Greck Car Insurance Limited, and melts down what was probably a computer monitor in the middle of the room." He looked back at Dean. "Motive?"

"Someone pissed him off when he asked how much it'd take to insure his collection of Gatchaman on Blu-Ray," Dean smirked. "Case closed. Let's eat."

Sam grinned, but he put his hand up to stop Dean walking past him. "Hold on. How big is Godzilla again?"

"Coupla floors, I think," Dean nodded.

"And he got in here without breaking any doors down?"

"Well you're the one who volunteered us for pavement pizza inspection duty," Dean said, swinging his hands out in protest. "What are we even doing here? It ain't exactly Spook Central."

"I thought it was going to be something simple," Sam shrugged. "To be honest, I really thought it _was_ going to be a spirit."

"Great. Well I think we've done all we can here, Harry Dresden. Let's _eat_," he stressed, walking to the doors and pushing them open grandly. He disappeared and Sam watched the doors swing shut before he looked back at the melted lump on the carpet.

He took a few steps closer, eyeing it in silence. Just as he turned to go, a dark shape flitted across the very edge of his vision. His head whipped around to follow it.

Nothing moved.

He frowned before looking back down at the pile of warm goo. Then he looked up slowly, back in the direction of the fleeting shadow. He took slow steps over to the cubicle, his shoes making not a single sound against the carpet. The desk and its partitions shielded the entire corner of the room. He grasped the back of the chair, wheeling it back toward him to afford him the view over the partitions.

Something shifted.

He grabbed the partition, hauling himself up quickly to see over the top.

"Dude?" Dean called, his head and shoulder sticking out from the doors slightly ajar.

Sam let go of the partition, drawing back and dipping sideways to look under the desk. "Hang on," he called back. He crouched suddenly, reaching under the desk before shuffling out again. He looked at the small item in his hand, turning it this way and that. Then he put a hand to the edge of the desk, getting up again slowly. He turned and looked over at the doors, and by extension, his brother. "Think I got something."

"We'll call at a clinic, you can get medication that'll clear it right up," Dean said helpfully.

Sam just looked at him - just looked. "Here," he said pointedly, raising his hand.

Dean huffed with the feeling of all the unjust souls in Hell before he came back into the room and strode back to his brother. He took the small lump from his fingers, lifting it to the lights in the ceiling for a moment. Then he sniffed it cautiously, before squeezing it in his fingers. "Congratulations, Sam. You found someone's eraser. _Now_ can we eat?"

He pushed it into his pocket and turned away, leaving Sam to look back at the desk, and the corner of the room it was protecting.

"Yeah, why not," he shrugged, shaking his head and following.

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"Ah, Agent Doohan," the police chief said, apparently with some relief, as she spotted the tall man approaching the desk. "Good morning."

"Chief Anderson," he said with a smile. "Just checking in - did forensics come up with an analysis of the melted substance yet?"

"Oh, did they," she said, gesturing to her office with her head. He offered the two desk sergeants a very wide smile and they rushed to open the counter-trap for him, brunette and blond pony-tails bouncing eagerly. The chief eyed them with a weary mix of disapproval and resignation, before waving a hand out for the impossibly tall man to walk down to her office with her. "Where's Agent Pegg this morning?"

"He's following up a possible lead," he said, falling into step beside her as they went down the hallway. Narrow and definitely possessing of a shortfall in the decor department, it was as uneventful as their progress as he paused by her door.

She opened it for him, nodding him in. He chose the chair opposite her desk, folding himself into it as she closed the door and went to her chair, flumping down into it. She picked up a sheet of paper, turning it round and proffering it across the table.

He took it slowly, reading it with care and attention worthy of a real FBI agent. He read the end and looked up, surprise and DO NOT WANT written in the hike of his eyebrows. "Human remains? You mean that pile of goo was a melted _person_?"

"I don't mean anything, Agent Doohan. All I know is, that wasn't a computer monitor or some other plastic thing that we were poking - it used to be a person. Apparently, the guy who used to clean up at night," she said slowly. "Michael Feswick, the janitor." She put her hands up, running them through her short grey hair before making them drop to the desk. "This gives me the creeps, I don't mind telling you."

"It should," he marvelled, looking back at the paper. "How hot would it have to-. I mean, how would it still be malleable after cooling-." He shook his head. "I've got to get this to my partner."

"By all means," she said, leaning back in her chair. "To be honest, I'm glad you two boys are down here. This is easily the weirdest thing I've ever seen - and I've been here thirty years."

"I'll let you know the moment we have any idea what happened," he said firmly, getting to his feet.

"Appreciate it, Agent Doohan."

He nodded to her and left the room quickly, aiming right for the front desk. Chief Anderson sighed, looking at the name and address on her notepad, as if she needed to be reminded of the house-call she was about to make.

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	2. Like It Or Lump It

**Two - Like It Or Lump It**

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The older woman stopped at the counter, banging on it loudly. "You there! Girl!" she called imperiously.

The desk sergeant looked up from her cluttered hands, assessing the woman in a heartbeat. "Oh Mrs Featherstone, what is it today?" she asked, hoping her voice had come across more polite than it had sounded to her own ears.

"It's that neighbour!" she cried. "How many times to I have to complain about her before you'll arrest her!"

"Mrs Featherstone, you know we can't arrest people for shouting 'Get that shirt off, Eomer!' at ten thirty at night," she said apologetically.

"Well you could at least caution her!" Mrs Featherstone protested. "She was at it again last night - this time it was someone called 'Spock'. Honestly - she really should get out more. _And_ you know she's always been fond of terrorising my cat? Well she's gone one step beyond this time!"

"'Terrorising' is a strong word," she sighed. "In what way has she terror-"

"She melted Mr Tinkles!" she said, rapping at the counter top again. "I want some of your men to come and see what she's done to him. And I want them to come and see what she's done to him _now_."

"Melted?" the sergeant asked. "Did you say melted?"

"Yes! He's just lying there, poor thing, looking like brown sugar and glue all mixed up - save his one tufty ear! And I want her to be arrested for murder!"

"Mrs Featherstone, please calm down," she said quickly.

"Get the chief!" she called to the lobby at large. "I want the chief! You young things wouldn't understand! It takes someone of wisdom, someone of experience, someone of-"

"What's been 'melted'?" came a voice, and she swung around to see a tallish man of the dark blond persuasion, watching her with intent.

"-someone of freckles," she blurted.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Oh, Agent… uhm…" the desk sergeant began.

"Pegg," he replied, nodding to her.

The older woman grasped the lapel of his suit, pulling on it slightly. "Oh Officer Pegg, you have to help me! He was my only friend, my only companion, my only comfort. Me, a poor old woman with nothing but the little furry friend in all the world," she moaned, staring up into his aggrieved green eyes.

He put a hand up slowly, loosening hers from his suit. "That's too bad, Mrs…?"

"Featherstone," she said quickly. "But you can call me Elsie."

"Elsie," he said with some unease. "You said something about 'melted'?"

"Yes - my cat, Mr Tinkles. He was just fine when I let him out last night, but he didn't come back. I heard that woman downstairs and her DVD player, and then this morning I went out to find him and there he was - all gloopy and - well-"

"Melted?" he hazarded.

"Melted!" she confirmed.

"Right. Well I'll call my partner to meet us at your place, Mrs Featherstone. We'll also need to talk to this neighbour of yours," he said, already feeling in his pocket for his phone.

"Oh thank you!" she breathed, clasping her hands together in delight. "Thank you, Officer Pegg!"

"It's 'Agent' Pegg," he corrected as he flipped the phone open and thumbed a few buttons. "FBI."

"FBI! Wonderful!" she grinned.

Agent Pegg was already listening to something down the phoneline. "Yeah, Sam? Nah, think I just missed you - I just got to the station. You got what?" He paused, eyeing Mrs Featherstone. "Well ain't that right up our alley? Speaking of alleys, get back over here. We got another one. No, not a person - a cat." He paused to listen, checking his watch. "Get coffee on the way over. Hang on," he added, and then looked down at the woman. "What's your address, ma'am?"

"939 Acacia," she said neatly. "It's right at the end of the road. The oldest house there is," she added proudly.

Agent Pegg nodded, then lifted the phone again. "You got that? Great. Don't forget the coffee. And if the girl on the counter is Alice, I want the free doughnut she owes me." He snapped the phone shut and slipped it back in his pocket. "Well then, Mrs Featherstone - why don't I give you a lift back to your place so I can get a close look at Mr - what was his name again?"

"Mr Tinkles," she said, already folding her hand round his upper arm. "Come on then."

He looked up at the desk sergeant, but she could only shrug helplessly. "Could you fill the chief in on this?" he called as he was guided backwards to the front doors of the police station.

"Sure thing, Agent Pegg," she nodded. She watched as he was wheeled around and hauled out of the doors.

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Dean stopped under the metal fire escape, hands in his trouser pockets, looking up.

"He's not up there, Agent Pegg - he's down here," Mrs Featherstone urged.

Dean turned from his study of the escape route, looking down at the elderly lady. "Just wondering how someone could get down here and - and do whatever they did, without someone seeing them."

"It was her upstairs - you go talk to her, you'll see what I mean," she snapped. She looked down at the browny-yellow puddle of something that looked like it had used to be molasses. A small furry triangle of something vaguely ear-related was slap-bang in the middle, making it look rather like a piece of modern art. "Oh Mr Tinkles - don't you worry, Agent Pegg here will see to the nasty lady."

Dean took a few steps over, crouching and inspecting the goop. "Just like yesterday's," he muttered to himself. He heard the familiar sound of giant feet trying to be quiet as they crunched the gravel and looked up. "Agent Doohan. Come and look at this."

Sam nodded to Mrs Featherstone, a slightly nervous look to his features, before sliding round her and looking down. "Another one?"

"Another one. Happened last night." Dean got up slowly. "So what have you got?"

"That rubbery stuff I found in the office? I had the chief analyse it for me," he said, producing the small lump from his pocket. It was lovingly wrapped in a Ziplock bag, a huge sticker on the side quoting all kinds of codes and order numbers. "There is no way in Hell you're going to guess what it is."

"So why don't you just tell me?"

Sam smiled, somewhat apologetically, and raised the bag higher. "It's a mixture of candle wax, pig fat, and… semen."

"Come again?" Dean asked, his disgusted eyes flicking up at his younger brother.

"Someone _did_. And then they mixed it up and… I don't know, made something out of it."

Dean's affronted gaze this time landed on the bag. "That's just gross. So whodunnit? Witches? They're always skeevin' things up with fluids and internal organs and whatevers."

"Could be," Sam shrugged.

"Excuse me, Agent Doohickey," Mrs Featherstone interrupted.

"Doohan," Sam corrected, turning to her and switching on a twenty megawatt smile, complete with sunny eyebrows of polite subservience.

"Yes, well, whatever," she managed, unable to keep up the bluster under the inescapable power of his attention. "I want to know when you're going to arrest that girl upstairs. She did this, you know."

"Not unless she's a man at weekends," Dean muttered under his breath.

"We'll go talk to her right now," Sam said soothingly. "I think it'd be best if you went inside, Mrs Featherstone. We'll take it from here," he said, patting her shoulder.

"Right. Yes. You see that you do," she said briskly, before nudging him to one side and carrying on to the back door of her apartment. She produced her keys and let herself in while the two agents looked at each other.

Sam's hands went into his pockets. "Shall we?"

"If the girl upstairs is a witch, we find her demon power supply and toast the two of them," Dean nodded.

He turned for the path round the side of the block, going left and following it round to the front entrance. Sam came to a stop beside him, pressing his finger into the small black button for the first floor. There was a long silence. Dean checked his watch quickly.

"It's noon on a Saturday. What's she doing, recovering from a Friday night black mass?" he asked.

Sam pressed the bell again and finally the speakerbox spluttered into life. "Yeah?" came a weary voice.

"Sleeping off a normal Friday night out with friends, maybe?" Sam said.

"Or getting some shut-eye after melting down the town cats," Dean put in.

Sam turned to the speaker and pushed the 'talk' button. "Hi. We're with the FBI, ma'am, just to ask you a few questions about Mrs Featherstone?"

"What's the matter, has the nosy old bat died at last?" was the caustic response.

Dean opted to rub at his nose quickly, but Sam just knew he was hiding a smile.

Sam looked back at the box. "We just have a few questions, ma'am. Then we'll be gone."

"Fine. Come on up," the voice replied.

There was a click and the door next to them buzzed. Sam grasped the handle and pulled it open, silencing the buzz, and Dean went past him to the staircase. The walk up the two half-flights of stairs behind them, they came through the door at the side of the landing to find a very nice carpeted hallway. The only door on the level beckoned just a few feet away, and Dean was already at the entrance, lifting his hand to the doorbell, before Sam stopped behind him.

"Dean," he said quickly.

"What?"

"If she's a witch…"

"We'll look for the signs, ok?" Dean said. "Jeez. What am I, fourteen?" He pressed the doorbell.

The wooden entrance was whisked open to reveal a roughly five-foot-five young lady of dangerously attractive bedhair the colour of fresh, wicked hot chocolate. Her sleepy eyes took in the two men with surprise, her hands going to the securely wrapped, thick cotton bathrobe to make sure it was as bonded to her as it could be.

"Uh - hi," she blurted, stepping back. "Please come in."

"Thanks," Dean nodded, his face melting into the world's most appreciative smile as he took a step toward her.

A little colour flushed her cheeks as she slammed her gaze to the carpet, holding the door open further for the two men to enter. She walked the door shut, Dean's head tilting to follow the bathrobe down to its inevitable conclusion, his eyes sliding down the backs of her legs as if there would be a test on them later. Sam cleared his throat. Dean looked at him, a dopey, open-mouthed expression on his face. Sam's eyebrows gathered together and exerted the mighty power of disapproval. Dean's features simply morphed into amusement.

"So, agents," she said quickly, turning around but staying by the door. "How can I help you?"

Dean looked at her with a wicked smile, opening his mouth. But it was Sam who answered her, drawing her nervous gaze from the shorter man to himself. "First of all, what's your name, and how long have you lived here?" he asked, pulling a notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket.

"Claire Benton," she said slowly, her face now passing for normal, save the slight confusion. "I've rented this place for the past three years."

"Any problems with your neighbours?" Sam asked, making notes.

"Only Mrs Featherstone. She complains about my TV," she sighed.

"Too loud? Or is she just too old?" Dean asked knowingly.

Claire looked at him and in a flash the red colour to her cheeks was back. "Uh - uhm… Too old, I think," she havered. "Look, what's this about?"

"We're just looking into the disappearance of your downstairs neighbour's cat," Sam said loudly. "Would you know anything about that?"

"The cat? Mr Tinkles?" she asked him. "He's a pest. He climbs up to my side window and miaows to be let in."

"And do you ever let him in?" Dean asked.

Her eyes shifted to him and she put a hand up quickly, curling unruly hair round her ear. "No. I hate cats," she said defensively, looking at Dean's shoes. "What did you say your names were again?" she asked lightly.

"I'm Agent Doohan," Sam said, then pointed to Dean with the end of his pen. "This is Agent Pegg."

She looked up quickly, her eyes going from one to the other in clear surprise. "Doohan? And Pegg? This is a joke, right?"

"No," Sam said slowly, confused.

"Oh, man!" she heaved in relief, throwing her hands up in the air. "I get it! Thanks, guys, really!"

"Woah woah woah," Dean said, one hand up in protest. "What do you get?"

"Michael - Michael at work. He said one day he'd prank me in return for that DVD gag I did on _him_. Well thanks, honest, you two were great. You even looked the part and everything," she grinned. She shook her head, pointing at Dean. "I should have known. You are _way_ too hot to be an FBI man. What do you two do now, strip, or something?"

Dean's expression of confusion deepened, his eyebrows quirking up in little triangular mountains of bewilderment, his mouth a tiny 'o' shape.

"Ma'am, we're not here to prank you," Sam said clearly.

"Oh yeah? Then what's with the 'Doohan' and 'Pegg' routine?" she chuckled. "You're even wearing red ties!"

"Oh," Dean said in a small voice - and now, as Sam looked at him, he began to appear a little uncomfortable. "Well-"

"Come on, admit it," she said. "Either you two pranksters are the biggest _Star Trek_ fans since Michael at work, or I'm just a witch reading your thoughts."

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	3. Waxworking

**Three **

**Waxworking**

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"_Star Trek_ fans?" Sam asked, lost.

Dean put both hands up. "Now wait a minute," he began.

She laughed. "I got you!" she cried happily. "Ha-ha! Wait until I put _this_ on my blog for Michael to read!" She put her hands on her hips. "Mr Feswick's going down for this one," she grinned maliciously, shaking her head. "_Everyone's_ going to read about how I caught you two out!"

"Michael Feswick?" Sam asked quickly.

"Yeah. He's the one who hired you two, right? Or whatever it is you call it," she grinned, going to the side table by the sofa and picking up a notepad and pencil.

"Uhm - Michael Feswick isn't going to be reading your blog today," Dean said.

She looked at him, then over to the small clock above the DVDs in the bookshelf. "You're right - I think he sleeps during the day." She put the stationery back down. "Good - it'll give me a chance to write a really _digging_ account. He can read all about it Monday."

Sam and Dean exchanged looks, before Dean walked up to her softly.

"Ms Benton, I'm afraid Michael's not reading any blogs _any_ time. At all," he said slowly.

"Why not?" she asked. "Who _are_ you two - his friends, then?"

"We're not FBI," Dean admitted. "But we _are_ looking into… I'm sorry, Ms Benton, but Michael's dead. We're trying to find out why."

She gasped in horror, backing away from him. Her hand went out to the arm of the sofa and she dropped into it slowly. "He's dead?" she managed, as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

"Yeah," Dean said, flicking his eyes at Sam momentarily. Sam shrugged, then gestured to her with his eyes. Dean cleared his throat, coming round the sofa and sitting next to her. "So… How close were you and him?"

"I'm sorry - did you say _dead_?" she asked faintly.

"Yes. Sorry."

She nodded, looking at the TV slowly, her hand squeezing the armrest on the couch a little hard.

"Look, sorry to ask, but we need more information," Dean said quietly. "How well did you know him?"

"He just cleaned," she managed. "But he left notes on my desk in the morning - sometimes we traded DVDs."

"He left notes?" Sam asked. "What kind of notes?"

"I went home one night and left my computer on. It wasn't even work, it was… Well, I have a blog. And I write about films I watch. He must've knocked the mouse or something because it came off standby and he read it. He left a Post-It on my keyboard to remind me to turn my computer off before I went home… and he left a comment about my opinions I was halfway through writing down, ready for my blog," she smiled. She looked at her hands. "After that, sometimes I left it on… well, on purpose. I kind of liked his comments - they were funny, clever." She looked up at Dean. "And then one morning I found he'd left a DVD on the keyboard - with a note to say that it was way better than the last film I'd reviewed on my blog. So I brought it home and watched it. Turns out, he was right."

Sam came to stand a little closer. "So… you two just traded notes. You never met him?"

"No. We never exchanged phone numbers or even e-mail addresses. I think… I think we both liked the anonymity."

Dean took a deep breath. "And you didn't know he was dead?"

"No," she whispered, studying his face. "Was it an accident? Traffic? He always said trying to cross that intersection in the morning was like a car chase from _The French Connection_."

Dean looked up at Sam before getting to his feet. "I think we've disturbed you enough," he said quietly, nodding to the door. Sam shrugged, putting his notebook and pen away before turning for the exit.

"Wait," she said, springing up from the sofa. "If you're _not_ FBI, who are you? I don't even know your names."

"I'm Dean, that's Sam," the elder Winchester said, chucking a thumb at his brother.

"And you're just 'investigating'?"

"Yeah. It's kind of our job," Sam said politely.

Claire came over to the door as Dean put his hand out on the knob. "So what if I need to find you again?" she asked quickly. "Aren't the _real_ police going to want to talk to me?"

Dean turned to her. "The _real_ police think we're FBI. They won't send anyone," he said reassuringly. He appraised her for a long moment, during which time Sam took the opportunity to roll his eyes. "Tell you what," Dean added, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a card. "You need anything, you call me. Ok?"

"Ok," she said shyly, taking the card and looking at it, lest he see the red flush to her cheeks. "Oh. It says Agent Pegg."

"Yeah. Ignore that. Bad cover," Dean admitted.

"I'll say," she scoffed, looking at him again. "Next time don't go with two actors who played the same engineer."

He winked at her with a sly grin, causing her to swallow and step back. His hand opened the door and he left the flat, Sam bringing up the rear. He paused on the threshold, looking back down at her.

"Uhm, Ms Benton?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

"You didn't hear anything outside last night, did you?"

"I heard Mr Tinkles. I tried to chase him off the tin roof there, but when I opened the window he'd already gone," she shrugged.

"You opened the window?" Sam asked. "Which one?"

"That one," she said, pointing across the wide open space to the far reaches of the apartment.

Sam looked over, thought for a second, and then smiled at her. "Thanks. You've been very helpful."

"I have?" she asked.

Sam just walked off, leaving her watching the two men exit the corridor. Then she closed the door, leaning back on it with a grin of mountainous proportions, reading the FBI card in her hands. She turned it over, thought back over the morning, and let her red face cool at the memory of why the two men had come in the first place - and the news they had brought with them.

Suddenly the room felt a little greyer than usual.

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Sam and Dean wandered back around the building to the Impala, waiting patiently at the kerb. Dean unlocked the driver's door but then put his right elbow out, resting it on the roof of the car.

Sam, poised to open the passenger door, looked over the roof. "What?" he asked suspiciously.

"So she worked with Michael Feswick and lives above the old bat whose cat was ray gun'd into glue," Dean replied slowly.

"But you don't seem to think it's her," Sam said. "And I don't think it was her, either."

Dean's eyes shifted to look at him. "Why?"

"Unless she's the best actress in the world, she was genuinely surprised that both Michael Feswick and Mr Tinkles were dead. And she was friends with one, and tolerated the other. No motive."

"So?"

"I think it's very interesting that on the night of the double 'murders', she thinks she hears Mr Tinkles - who was probably already dead by this point - and opened a window to scare him off."

"And?" Dean asked, his face a mask of utter perplexity.

"What if something came in through the window?"

"Why would something come in through the window?" Dean pressed. "And what the Hell is it? It'd have to be pretty damn small to get in, right?"

"It could have been a spirit," Sam shrugged.

"A spirit that needs to open a window to get in? That melts people down? What is it, a pissed off racehorse?"

Sam raised his eyebrows at him. "I don't know. Maybe something made of wax, animal fat and semen."

"Still sounds like some skeevy witch's thing to me," he grumped, shivering in disgust. He opened the driver's door quickly, sliding into the seat before leaning over and unlocking Sam's door. The taller Winchester folded himself into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut. Dean pushed the key in the ignition, thinking. "You know," he said, "if something _did_ get into Ms Benton's apartment, one of us should _definitely_ stake her out."

"You mean stake the _apartment_ out," Sam reminded him clearly.

"That's what I said," he nodded, turning the key and bringing the Impala to beautiful _chug-chug_ life. "You find out what that stuff could have fallen off, and I'll… make some calls."

"Calls?" Sam prompted, as Dean put his hand to the back of the seat to twist around, reversing out of the kerbed parking space and into the road.

"Trust me," he said with a devilish smile, turning around in his seat and putting the classic into Drive.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Sam ignored the laptop, letting it whir away with concentrated purpose as he folded his arms, staring into space. The motel door opened abruptly and Dean appeared, a cardboard carrier of beer bottles in one hand and the motel key in the other.

"Anything?" he asked, stepping in to use his boot to push the door shut behind him.

"One thing - I hope it's important," Sam said. "The site where Greck Car Insurance is now? It used to be an import-export place until two years ago. It was there for thirty years - then it went belly-up, got sold and was redeveloped into offices."

"So something could have been imported from God-knows-where and got trapped here?" Dean asked. "Swell. That means it could be some effed-up European thing from like a thousand years ago."

Sam smiled. "Maybe," he admitted. "I do have an idea, though."

"Well?" Dean asked, carrying his cargo to the wooden table, setting it down to pull off his jacket. "It's witches, right? Is it witches?"

"No. They don't seem to be into candle wax and pig fat," he allowed.

His brother pulled out the other chair to the table, sitting and pulling out his phone. "So where do we go from here? Food?"

"I'm thinking… homunculus."

"Do we get fries with that?" Dean asked innocently.

Sam opened his mouth, then just shook his head, putting his hands out and turning the laptop round slowly for his brother to see. "A homunculus. Popular during the Renaissance - alchemists were trying to create a human being - only small. Real small. This guy," he added, tapping the screen as if the presence of the only picture upon it were not enough for Dean to work out to whom he was referring, "is Paracelsus. He wrote a recipe for creating these little suckers. Guess what the ingredients are."

Dean's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Aw no."

"Yeah. Semen was supposed to be sealed in a glass container, lined with candle wax and animal fat and then buried in horse manure for forty days. It needed to be 'properly magnetised' - whatever that meant, he never said - and then it came to life."

"And goes on a rampage, eating people it turns into goo?" Dean asked suddenly. "Did you notice how the amount of molasses on the carpet at the insurance place was not enough to make up one hundred and sixty pounds of Michael Feswick?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted uncomfortably. "Which means the little guy is eating people."

"There's an image," Dean grumped. "So these things think for themselves? Or are they just minions?"

"Oh, this is where it gets interesting," Sam assured him. "After it 'comes to life', it has to be fed with 'arcanum sanguinis hominis', apparently the secret ingredient taken from human blood. After forty weeks you get a real live breathing, thinking, tiny dude that does your bidding - in his own way."

"Sweet," Dean sighed with sarcasm, leaning back in the chair. "You think we got a human-culus?"

"Homunculus," Sam corrected, turning the laptop back to him. "I think it's possible."

"How can we kill it?"

"I don't know yet," he replied. "So far, I can't find any evidence of a real being actually getting made successfully - which means there was no need to record how to destroy one."

"What about Frost, or whatever his name was? Didn't he write about one?"

"Faust?" Sam asked, surprised. He looked at his brother over the top of the laptop. "You've read Faust?"

"Saw the film," Dean nodded. Sam's eyebrows shot up in shock and awe. Dean caved. "Well, ok, the porn version. And I'm telling you, Helen? Man, she did this thing-"

"Ok, I get it," Sam interrupted quickly.

Dean just smiled to himself before looking at the beer. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "You've done your job, time for me to do mine." He pressed the keys slowly, sniffing before raising the phone to his ear. Sam watched surreptitiously. Dean's face radiated smug composure. "Oh, hi," he said suddenly. "Ms Benton?"

Sam's eyes went back to the laptop determinedly.

"Yeah, it's me, 'Agent Pegg'. What? Oh, Dean. Yeah, like a college head. Anyway, listen, uhm, I just wanted to apologise for us turning up and giving you the impression we were FBI agents… Yeah. Yeah, I know," he allowed suavely. "So… Oh, really? Well, sorry to inter-. Oh, cool. Really? Is that the Blu-Ray release with the extra eighteen minutes? No way," he grinned.

Sam's eyes flicked to him, then back down to the screen. He re-applied himself to the internet search engine and its efforts to engage his interest.

"I could do that," Dean said, his voice positively dripping with honey. "Sure. Yeah. Give me… an hour?" He leant over and flicked his fingers against the back of Sam's laptop screen to get his attention. "Yeah. Cool. See you then." He folded the phone shut. "Go on, congratulate me."

"On what?" Sam sighed wearily.

"Those pencil-pushing no-hopes at Greck Insurance were only too happy to give 'Agent Pegg' Ms Benton's number when I was on my way over here. And Ms Benton and I are about to unwrap her new Blu-Ray edition of '_The A-Team_' over beer and pizza. I'd better change my shirt." He got up quickly, going to his duffle on the bed nearest the door.

"That's great," Sam managed. "What about the case?"

"Hey, she _is_ the case," Dean pointed out innocently, already yanking off his shirt and going to his duffle. "I watch her to make sure nothing comes calling - again - while I find out why this human-culus thing would be killing off cats outside her window and janitors that leave her notes at work. You find out where the little dude came from and how we kill it."

"Right," Sam grumbled.

Dean didn't hear him, so engrossed was he in fishing out a clean v-necked t-shirt and a relatively fresh-smelling dark green shirt.

.

.


	4. House of Wax

**Four**

**House of Wax**

.

The door buzzed and Claire bounced to the intercom, holding down the button. "Yeah?"

"Hey there," came a familiar voice. "Just me."

She grinned and pressed the button for entry, turning to look at her apartment carefully. Everything was ready; table by the sofa, two plates neatly stacked and waiting just as impatiently as her for the pizza she had ordered. Four bottles of beer were sitting rather helplessly in a plastic drinks cooler underneath, and the new Blu-Ray disc was lounging in front of the large television screen, rubbing its hands in glee and waiting for something to happen.

A knock at the door made her jump. She cursed herself and turned to look through the spy-hole. Clearing her throat, she waved air at her face before teasing her long brown hair out of her way. She blew out a breath, sniffed and straightened her shoulders, and opened the door swiftly.

"Hi," she said brightly.

Dean looked in from the threshold. It was obvious that his best innocent smile had been washed and dried with care and was now being worn with experience. A dark grey V-necked t-shirt had some kind of pointy amulet over the top, mostly obscured by the dark olive shirt that he had at least bothered to button up. His jeans - stylishly ripped in all the right places, of course - fell to the large boots, and as her eyes crawled back up to his face, they enjoyed the trip so much they stopped to take photos.

"Hi," he said with a slight nod, lifting a six-pack of beer cans in his left hand. "I came to share a Blu-Ray and talk to a beautiful girl. And I'm all out of Blu-Ray."

She gasped. "Oh my god! You've seen '_They Live_'?"

"Hasn't everyone?"

She laughed, stepping back and pulling the door further open. She waved a hand out in invitation. "Not even Michael has-. Oh." Her smile collapsed. "I mean… uhm.. Not even he _had_ seen that. I lent it to him. Guess it's still at his place, somewhere."

Dean walked in slowly, taking in the placement of possible exits and anything made of salt or iron. He heard the door close and turned to look at her.

"Well… sit down," she said nervously. "The pizza should be here soon - I ordered it from the good place because they use the proper amount of _real_ cheese."

"Cool," he nodded, then lifting the beer again as his eyes went past her. "I'll toss these in the refrigerator, shall I?"

"I can do that," she said, her hands going out to the booze. "You make yourself at home on the couch."

He ambled toward the sofa. _How do normal people make themselves at home on a couch?_ he asked himself.

Claire opened the fridge and dumped the cans inside before closing it with a snap. She came over and whisked up the Blu-Ray box, holding it out to him. "And you're sure you're ok with this?" she asked. "Some people are against reboots."

He took the box, looking it over. "It has… eye candy - one for you, one for me - explosions, good guys, bad guys… I think I'll manage," he said easily, handing it back. She accepted it gratefully, as if needing something to focus on. He cleared his throat, backing away to the sofa and sitting slowly. "So… I have a confession to make," he began.

"Really?" she said quickly, turning to look at him. "What?"

"Well…" He rubbed his palms together, looking past her to the television set. "You know me and my brother aren't really FBI agents, and…"

"That tall guy is your brother?" she hazarded. "I don't see the resemblance."

Dean shrugged. "I think he was adopted."

"Yeah, he's your brother alright," she smiled. "So what you do _really_ do?"

"You don't want to ask me that," he sighed with real weariness. "Basically, I'm just here to make sure that whatever went for Michael and the downstairs' cat doesn't come back."

She let out a long breath of relief, putting down the box and going to the end of the sofa. She sat heavily. "Oh thank God," she heaved.

"What?" he asked, dismayed.

"For a moment there, I thought you agreed to come over because you _liked_ me and it made me really nervous! I almost couldn't press the buttons on the phone when I ordered pizza!" she gabbled. "Oh - I feel so much better. Now I know this all for work, we can get on with the movie and pizza and you can ask me questions about Michael and whatever and I can relax." She fell back against the sofa cushion, smiling at him.

"Oh yeah - that. Exactly that," he nodded seriously.

She got up again quickly. "I mean, I like you and everything," she said over her shoulder, picking up the Blu-Ray box and opening it up, "but I really would not know how to talk to you if I thought you were _interested_ in me." She bent down to press the eject button on the machine.

Dean frowned at the shapely, jeans-clad behind that was currently waving at him in malicious enjoyment. He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he managed. "Awkward."

She straightened up again, curling hair around her ear as she put the box on the television stand. "Right. Here we go." She picked up the remote and went back to the sofa, curling up in the corner and watching the various warnings roll up the screen. Dean sat back, watching her deliberately.

At last she turned her head. "Yes?" she managed.

"Claire…"

"What?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry about Michael, ok? But… if he wasn't directly related to you, and neither was your neighbour's cat, then why are you the only link between them?"

She pressed the 'stop' button, shuffling to face him. "I don't know. The craziest thing I've ever done is watched '_Twilight'_ sober."

He almost smiled. Then he made himself concentrate. "You've never felt uncomfortable in this place?" he asked. "No cold spots, no strange noises, no doors opening or closing when you're not looking?"

"No," she shrugged. "Oh - except this morning. The window to the tin roof was open a little. But I must have left it open when I cleaned bird crap off the outside."

"Are you _sure_ you left it open?" he asked, getting up and going to the pane of glass in question. He looked out, finding the night watching him in return.

"I think so," she said, noticing his hand go out to slide down the handle. He lifted it off and looked at his palm. "What is it?" she asked, getting up.

"Don't know," he mused, studying his fingers. She came over and peered at his hand. His eyes flicked to her fringe, then his fingers again. "I came for two reasons," he said suddenly.

"What?" she asked, looking at him.

"I came to make sure nothing was going to bother you," he said slowly.

"And the other reason?" she asked, fear in her beautiful eyes.

He smiled suddenly. "To watch a Blu-Ray. Are we going to start this movie or what?"

She stepped back, relieved, and then turned back to the sofa. His smile fell to be replaced with a forlorn pout. The door buzzed suddenly.

"That'll be the pizza," she said confidently, going to the door.

Dean pulled his phone from his pocket and began to dial.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Sam yawned and thrust his hands into the air over his head. He grasped a wrist and stretched, holding it for a moment. Then he let his arms fall and thought about a fresh cup of coffee.

The moment he put his palms to the table to push himself up, his phone began to ring. He saw the name on the display and snatched it up, all other thoughts swept away. "Yeah," he said quickly. "What?"

Dean's voice filtered down the line. "Found something on the window," he said quietly. "Feels waxy."

"Oh, dude," Sam said in disgust. "You think it's from the homunculus?"

"God, I hope so." There was a pause. "Or not. I really need to wash my hands."

Sam smiled slowly. "Yeah. If she knew what that stuff was made of, it might put her off you all night."

"Shut up."

"Anything on Claire and why she's in the middle of this?" Sam asked, trying to sound more professional.

"Not yet. I'll keep you posted. What about our little wax dude?"

"Nothing. No-one claiming to have made one, no-one's lost one, and I can't find any way to kill one."

"This is not exactly how I wanted things to go tonight," Dean sighed. Sam heard a voice and a rustle of material close to the phone, and then Dean's voice became louder again. "Go to go, Sam. Fresh pizza. Keep diggin'."

"And you," he managed, before the line was cut. He looked at the phone, huffed, and then got up to begin the search for coffee filters.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"This is not exactly how I wanted things to go tonight," Dean said down the phone.

Claire put the pizza box on the table slowly, eyeing him. "Oh. Have I said something wrong?" she asked.

He pressed the phone to the olive shirt over his chest quickly, turning to look at her. "Oh, ah, no, not you - I mean - ah - not _here_," he said quickly. "Sam. Research. Not good."

"Oh," she said, very relieved. "Ok."

Dean kept his eyes on the large cardboard box as he lifted the phone again. "Got to go, Sam. Fresh pizza. Keep diggin'." He snapped the phone shut and slid it back into his pocket. "So - what did you get?"

"Hawaiian. Hope that's ok," she said.

"Perfect." He came back over and sat down, and she smiled as went back to the far right corner of the sofa, settling herself in.

"There's beer underneath," she said helpfully.

"Maybe just one," he said politely, as she reached for the plates and the remote control.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

The credits rolled to a stop and Dean shook his head, grinning. "Kiss the girl, get the key. Got to remember that one," he chuckled.

Claire leant over him but avoided the last slice of pizza still in the delivery box. Instead she clicked off the television and went for another beer bottle, finding it the last one in the portable cooler. She put her hand on his knee to right herself, pulling the beer back with her. "Y'know," she said with a sunny smile, "that movie was a lot of fun. Because you were here to make man-comments."

"Well hey, I'm happy to entertain you," he said with a smile.

She lifted her beer bottle toward him. "Could you open a girl's beer, too?"

"Definitely." He took the bottle and twisted off the cap, holding it out for her.

She put her hand out and took it, but her eyes were slightly glossed as she tilted her head at him. "From the right angle… your ears look a little pointy," she smiled. He looked at her - just looked. She giggled and waved him off with her hand not currently wrapped around a bottle. "It's true!" she grinned. She shuffled up the sofa suddenly, leaning her arm along the back edge of the couch. "I _like_ pointy ears."

"Yeah, I noticed your '_Lord of the Rings'_ collection," he said with a smile.

"I'm kind of upset about Michael," she offered suddenly. "But… it brought you to my doorstep, so… at least there's one small thing that's not all bad."

He frowned at her. "I thought you didn't want me to like you."

"I didn't," she admitted. "But you're fun. I like fun."

"And pointy ears."

"And them," she grinned. She shuffled slightly closer. "What do _you_ like?"

Dean studied her, his smile falling by degrees. She witnessed the good cheer flurry from his face like all the best moments of a life swept down a storm drain, and suddenly he was eyeing her with regret. "You are… _so_ beautiful," he said quietly. "So _alive_. And you don't even know it."

"What _do_ you do?" she dared.

"I see a lot of crap. It's nasty. It's bloody. It's unfair." He looked down at his nearly done beer bottle, lifting it and emptying it easily. "And then sometimes I meet someone like you. And I think: 'See? There's someone left alive who actually _enjoys_ life'. And it doesn't have to be bloody and cruel and dark."

She slid all the way closer, reaching across him to set her bottle on the table. She pulled herself back to face him, but her hand went to his cheekbone, sliding back and into the hair over his ear. "You investigate things like whatever happened to Michael," she said quietly. "I don't want to know the rest. It sounds bad enough already."

He watched her from mere inches away. He opened his mouth, but his brain radioed down and told it that nothing had been prepared for broadcast, and he was forced to trap his bottom lip between his teeth instead. It slid free slowly as she watched with appreciation.

A short sharp movement - a flicker - a shadow - _something moving_ - from the corner of his eye.

_It's the TV, dumbass_, he told himself. _Stop gaslighting yourself here. Priority one: girl, twelve o'clock._

Another flicker of a shadow.

And then it dawned on him:

The television was off.

.


	5. Waxed Fruit

**Five**

**Waxed Fruit**

.

"Claire," Dean breathed.

She grinned, inching closer. "Uh-huh?"

"Don't. Move."

Her eyes frowned at his warning, definitely not the warm voice she had heard so far. She let her hand drop from his face. "But-"

"Sshh," he ordered. His eyes swivelled slowly to the left - further than she had ever seen an eye move in a socket.

She watched him, distinctly unamused. "Dean-"

"Well, hello Mr Fancypants," he managed, barely a whisper.

"_Army of Darkness_," she grinned. "I know that movie, too."

His eyes didn't move and she felt her smile falling away. Instead she turned her head, trying to see what the draw could possibly be.

What she found was a brown-grey toy - except it was moving slightly. Barely seven inches high, apparently made of Play-Doh or some strange, smooth version of Plasticine, it looked almost like a small human. The two legs were slightly bent, as if caught in the act of walking. There were no feet on the end, just large round pads like 1950s' alien flying saucer landing gear. Its arms were out as if to provide balance, the hands with one giant flat spade where fingers should be, a tiny thumb curled opposite. The head was a round feat of sculpture - no mouth, no ears, no eyes. However, on the front were two hollows, as if someone had poked the end of a pencil into it.

The hollows turned on Dean. And then, rather impressively, the holes folded shut once. Then they stretched into hollows once more. Its circular foot slid out to its left, and then the right one inched up to follow it.

"You little ninja!" Dean marvelled under his breath. "You still think we haven't seen you?"

The tiny figure took another stealthy step to its left, bringing the other foot up to meet it.

Dean grinned.

Claire screamed.

The spell was broken.

Claire went up; Dean went down. As she leapt up to stand on the sofa, Dean launched himself across the room on his front. Claire's feet were safely on the couch, her hands dancing about in fear as she screamed again. Dean's dive was perfect - except for the way the small figure leapt back a fraction.

Dean blinked at the little form.

It blinked back at him.

And then it simply leapt nimbly onto his wrist, then his head - and disappeared.

"You little-!" Dean pushed himself onto his back, sitting up and looking around. He looked up at Claire, who was now frozen in the act of squeezing a sofa cushion to her chest and staring at him. His head turned and surveyed the room very slowly. "He's in here somewhere," he warned.

"What is it?" she whispered, starting to shake.

"A homunculus," Dean said softly, pushing himself to his feet. He put a hand in his pocket, found his phone, and flipped it open quickly. A few thumbs at his speed-dial list and he had slapped the device to his ear. "Sam," he said quickly. "Yeah. Just seen it. Damn thing was trying to tip-toe past us like something out of Tom and Jerry." He paused, looking at Claire. "She's freaked out. He's in here somewhere. Get over here." He listened, nodded, and then closed the phone. "Sam's on the way. We'll find him, Claire. Stay calm."

"Stay calm?" she whispered. "There's a - a - _thing_ in my apartment!"

"And I'm gonna find him," he said firmly. "Stay there. Don't move. Don't scream."

"Sorry," she managed.

"Everyone does it," he sighed, turning to look around the room again. He froze, letting his ears and his eyes do all the work.

A rustle - a movement. Dean turned quickly. He went to the end of the sofa, crouching to put his hand on the arm. He took a deep breath, and, very slowly, poked his head round the end of the furniture.

The figure was plastered spread-eagled against the far wall, as if caught in a prison searchlight. The head turned and the two hollows aimed themselves at Dean. The human straightened up, putting his two hands out as Claire stepped down from the sofa in slow motion.

"You know what's weird?" Dean said cheerfully, keeping his hands empty and in plain sight in front of him as he took a step forward. "You're not exactly on the offensive, here." He came another step closer. "We're not gonna hurt you. -Unless you try to melt anyone down," he added quickly.

The tiny form slid to one side, its shoulders hunched, its head looking off toward the entrance to the kitchen, further along the wall to which it had its back.

"Now hold on a minute," Dean said in his best friendly voice, making it look back at him. "Don't go anywhere just yet. We just want to see you. C'mon, dude, take a break. How long you been hanging around this apartment, watching TV with us?" he joked.

The little head tilted. It slid back, more to the right, and something gave Dean the feeling it was looking past him. He looked over his shoulder and spotted the large television set. He frowned, then looked back at the homunculus.

"You _were_ watching TV with us?" he managed, surprised. The form took a tiny step to its left. "Woah, hey, it's fine, you can watch TV if you like," Dean added hurriedly. "Good movie, huh?"

The figure stopped. It waited, its head tilting down to the right and then upright again. Dean just watched, wondering what to say next. He took another step forward, his right whisking up the now bereft sofa cushion. He unzipped it slowly, pulling out the pillow to leave it on the arm.

"Which bit did you like?" he teased the small being. "The flying tank? It was the flying tank, right?"

Suddenly the figure yanked upright. It stretched out in patent fear. It turned and began to run.

"No!" Dean called after it. He made a leap and flew through the air as if looking for a touchdown. The empty cushion cover brushed its back - but the figure was galloping away much faster than something with large flat feet should have been capable of.

Dean scrambled to his hands and knees, watching it run, following its position with his eyes. Even as he got to his feet, he saw the little person collapse to one knee to perform a perfect T.J. Hooker sliding-over-a-car-hood manoeuvre. It scooted expertly into the dark under the TV table and was gone.

Dean slapped a hand at the floor in annoyance. He pushed himself up to sit back on his heels. "What the Hell?" he demanded angrily. "I was _this_ close-"

"I nearly had him," Claire said from behind him.

He looked over his shoulder to find her standing tall, a competition size Louisville Slugger in both hands, raised over her shoulder as if she were ready to take on the entire team of the New York Yankees. Dean just stared. She stalked round the sofa to advance on him, coming past him to look at the television table in disgust.

"Is it under there?"

"What?" Dean demanded. He got to his feet. "Claire - I said not to move. Did you hear me say 'don't move'?"

"I did," she said. "And then I thought that little _thing_ has probably been in my home for _days_ and I didn't know. And I want it out."

"Well hitting it with a baseball bat is _not_ going to help," he said irritably, putting a hand up and wrenching it from her grip. She turned to look at him. "It's not _human_, Claire. The best you could hope for is to get your bat melted down like Michael."

She took a step back, looking back to the table. "But… it was going to kill us!"

"Was it?" Dean demanded. "Then why was it trying to get _past_ us without us seeing it? Why did it run? Why not just kill us both and keep the damn apartment and your movie collection?" He went over and dropped the baseball bat to the sofa, unimpressed.

She looked around suddenly. "Is it still under there?" she asked quietly.

Dean dropped to his hands and knees, his cheek against the floor, his backside waving in the air, as he looked under. "Yeah, he's still there," he said quietly. "No exit."

"Then kill it," she hissed. "Burn it or something."

"Claire - just stop talking," he said firmly. "You're scaring him."

"_I'm_ scaring _it_?" she scoffed.

"Yeah. Come here, look."

She curled her hair around her ears, got down on her hands and knees, and slowly, carefully, shuffled up to Dean's head. She dipped down and peered underneath.

The figure was on its side, curled up in a little ball, its arms around its knees. It was shaking slightly, the little holes in its head squeezed shut in a way that produced tiny crinkly lines.

Her face melted in abrupt compassion. "Aww - it's really scared!"

"Maybe he's allergic to baseball bats," Dean said pointedly.

She bit her lip for a long moment, watching it tremble. The hollowed out sockets stretched open and they pointed at Claire, then Dean. Then they folded shut again.

"Well, I think you put the fear of God into him," Dean sighed, pushing himself to kneel on the floor. "Funny, how at the first sign of trouble, he hides and cries. Not exactly a melting-people-down type monster, is he?"

"You mean… he isn't the one that killed Michael?" she spluttered.

"Right now, Vegas money says no."

Claire sat up, looking at him. "So… what did?"

"A very good question." Dean got down again to look underneath. "Hey buddy," he called softly. "You can come out now. The nice lady is _not_ going to try to score a home run with your head."

Claire got down again too, finding the little figure now watching Dean. "Hi," she said nervously. "Sorry about that," she added guiltily. "You scared me. You really can come out. We're not going to hurt you."

There was a knock at the door and the two humans pulled their heads up to look at each other, barely four inches between them.

"That's Sam," Dean said wisely.

"Oh. Should I-"

"Yeah. Go."

"Ok." She shuffled back and got to her feet, going across the flat to the front door.

Dean put his head back down to keep his eyes on the tiny form. "Look, dude. You can lie there all night, or you can come out. We just want to help, honest."

Two dark, suede ankle boots appeared next to Dean's head. From the opportunity they afforded people to use them for boating activities due to their size, he knew them to be Sam's. "What have you got?" the shoes asked.

"Take a look," Dean muttered, going back to watching the small creature.

Sam was on his hands and knees and then his head turned sideways to look under the table. "Whoa. That's like… a real homunculus," he breathed, impressed.

"He can hear you."

"Yeah, but… Look at it! Arms, legs, the whole deal," Sam went on.

"He can still hear you," Dean warned. "Try to get him to come out. Pull the puppy eyes on him, Sam. He'll go for that."

"Yeah - right after he melts my face off," he tutted.

"Claire almost took him out with a baseball bat - so he ran under here. He's been quivering in a ball ever since," Dean pointed out.

"Oh. He didn't try to-"

"No," Dean said meaningfully. "He just shot under here and now he's too busy crapping himself to come out." He got up, sliding away and getting to his feet. He blew out a sigh, looking at his brother's back as the soothing tones of Sam on the Persuasive Trip emanated from the taller Winchester.

Claire looked over, her hands curled under her chin. "I'm sorry," she said miserably. "Shouldn't I be trying to get him out? I mean, I was the one who frightened him."

"If anyone can get him out, it's Sam," Dean said. He looked at the sofa. "Take a seat. We still have to figure out what we're dealing with, here."

She moved to the couch and sat slowly. He let his hands steal onto his hips as he watched his brother. Eventually Sam slid away, but he didn't look up. His hand went for the pizza box and he waved at it.

"Get me some food," he instructed. Dean tore off the end of the triangle and put it in Sam's waiting fingers. He slid down again, stretching a hand under the table.

"What do you think he eats?" Dean asked.

"Well he seems to be attracted to the pizza," Sam said quietly. The two of them watched, surprised, as Sam got to his hands and knees, backing away, his hands empty. "That's it. See? There's nothing to be afraid of," he said soothingly. Claire put her feet up on the sofa quickly, hugging her knees to her chest in fright. Sam slid back still further.

And then a little foot appeared from under the table. An arm pushed itself out and then the torso was bending to creep out from its hiding place. The tiny triangle of pizza in its hand was dropped to the floor as the tiny figure watched them all.

"More pizza," Sam said from the side of his mouth.

Dean grabbed more and turned, about to give it to Sam, but the figure took a few hesitant steps to Dean instead. The relatively huge human crouched and held it out, and the tiny person stole up to him. Its little limbs went out and the spade-like block of fingers went under the dough in the human's grasp. Dean let it go with a smile, and the homunculus' thumbs hooked over the top, sliding it off Dean's fingers.

"He likes it," Claire whispered.

They watched, wide-eyed, as the little figure raised the pizza to its head. A large hollow formed in the lower half and then the pizza went toward it. The hollow folded and a weeny bite appeared in the chunk of bacon closest to it. The face squirmed and then the bacon piece shot out of the waxy head with a tiny '_puh-toowie!_' noise, landing on the floor. The head went back to the topping, hovering with intent before it found a chunk of pineapple. It devoured it in three bites.

"Aww," Claire allowed, letting her legs fall slowly. "That's so cute."

"And vegetarian," Sam said slowly. He backed away a safe distance, tilting his head at Dean. The eldest Winchester wandered back silently and and met him round the back of the sofa. They watched the little form slowly devour the two other large lumps of pineapple from the two-inch slice of pizza in tiny, careful bites of the hollow in its face while Claire stared at it in fascination.

"Problem," Sam said under his breath.

"I don't get it, Sam," Dean said helplessly. "Look at him. We'll have him on a diet of pizza and TV before that slice is done - he's the housepet of human-colossus-"

"Homunculi," he corrected absently.

"That," Dean nodded. "I don't think it was him."

"Me either." He watched the little homunculus turn his attention to the last chunk of pineapple. "His size, strength, speed - not eating bacon. And he's not exactly trying his melty deathray on us, is he?"

"I know. That's what I don't get," Dean acceded.

The pizza completely cleaned of pineapple, the little form turned and blinked its small hollows at Claire.

"You are so cute," she gushed. It took a step toward her, its head tilting. "Come on," she said warmly, a hand out to it. "You want more pizza? We have some." It took another step.

"Claire," Dean warned.

"It's ok, I think it likes me," she said.

It came another step. Then another. And then it put its hands to the leg of the table and shinnied up like a monkey in a banana tree race.

"Whoa," Dean said, impressed. "The little dude can really climb."

It reached the top and walked over to the pizza box. Claire put her hand down to help tear some food free. It prickled suddenly. Its hands came up and abruptly, they reformed into jagged blades.

She gasped and jumped back. Dean put his hands over the back of the sofa and grabbed her shoulders, ready to pull.

But Sam's hand shot out across Claire. "It's not you," he said.

"Are you crazy?" Claire accused.

The form rippled and suddenly it was covered in tiny spines, wicked sharp and pointing forwards.

"Uhm… dude?" Dean managed. "This is not good."

Sam grabbed Claire's arm. "Move out of the way!"

"Where?"

The two men lifted her over the back of the sofa and she found her feet. Dean's hands were on her upper arms as he pulled her back toward him. She stumbled back, her eyes glued to the silent figure of anger on the table.

It was then that she realised it wasn't watching _them_.

"What is it?"

Sam was looking out of the side window to the tin roof. "The reason he's in _here _and not out _there_."

.


	6. Wax On, Wax Off

**Six**

**Wax On, Wax Off**

.

"Holy crap!" Claire gasped. She stared out of the small window. "What _is_ that?"

Sam and Dean eyed the diminutive figure currently glaring at them through the glass. It hissed and spat. Globules of something decidedly sticky splattered on the outside of the window - which then began to melt.

"Ok we're out of here," Dean said quickly. He hauled Claire along with him by the shoulder as he made for the front door. "Sam!" he called.

Sam was rooted to the spot, his eyes wide. "Dean! I know what it is!"

"It's trouble we don't need, that's what it is!" Dean shot back, his hand already on the door handle.

"It's what's been killing things, melting them down!"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!" Dean cried. "Now _let's go!_"

He ripped the door open and shoved Claire out in front of him. Sam caught him up and charged through the open door. Dean went to pull it shut but Sam's boot went in and wedged it open.

"Dude!" Dean protested.

"Look!" he hissed.

Three heads went back through the gap in the door. A paler version of their little fruit-lover, nearly ten inches tall, was climbing through the new hole in the window. It rippled and changed shape to squeeze through, stepping in and coming to a stop. It surveyed the room, as if the spiked, angry form currently standing with one foot in the pizza bothered it less than a weather forecast.

"Move, dude," Dean hissed. Sam opened his mouth to protest, then realised his brother was not concerned for his safety, but rather that of the little form on the table.

"Are they having a stand-off?" Claire whispered, horrified.

Dean nodded. "Looks like."

"Why?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowed in speculation.

"Maybe it's like a _Highlander_ thing and there can be only one," Dean said. "Maybe this new one's a Cleaner and he has to get rid of all the other homunculus things. Or maybe he's just pissed he didn't get any pizza."

"Oh it's definitely all about pizza," Sam said, with enough sarcasm to fill the boot of the Impala.

The smaller form took a step back as the larger one leapt from the window ledge. It landed on its flying saucer feet not six inches from the smaller being that was desperately trying to puff itself up. It reached down and picked up what was left of the pizza slice.

"Go on, kick his ass!" Dean hissed.

Sam reserved judgement. Claire's hand gripped Dean's shirt as the entire gamut of emotions, from fear to excitement, raged through her.

The larger form stepped forward. It took a pseudo-breath.

"Swing!" Dean hissed.

The little homunculus twisted. The slice of pizza sailed through the air. It _whapp_ed into the larger one with such force it was sent off its feet. Claire squeezed at Dean in excitement. Sam turned and fled down the corridor.

The bigger form got up and dusted itself off. It spat at the smaller one. The little homunculus swerved and avoided the gob of liquid - but it hit the pizza in its hands. It began to bubble and melt. The smaller form dropped it quickly. Instead it stood back and tore the side off the cardboard box. It raised it like a baseball bat. And then it put one little hand out, waving the block of fingers open and closed at the larger form in an unctuous inviting gesture.

Dean grinned.

The bigger homunculus bent slightly in anger. Its hands balled into solid fists. It leapt at the smaller figure. The cardboard came round lightning fast. It ploughed into the form. It was knocked onto its back. The smaller homunculus pressed the advantage. It rained heavy blows into the now squishy enemy, faster and faster as it thrashed the larger, squirming form.

"Whoa - he's got some anger issues," Dean breathed.

"But he's _winning_," Claire said, impressed.

It stopped and stepped back, eyeing the fallen homunculus with suspicion. It backed up another step, bringing his cardboard weapon round to look at it. Finding it wet and bent hopelessly out of shape, it flung it to the table carelessly. It began to look around for something useful.

"What's he doing?" Claire asked.

"He thinks it's a trick. He's getting an axe," Dean said simply.

Claire smiled nervously. "You do love your _Army of Darkness_ quotes, don't you?"

"Got to have a hobby."

They watched as the smaller form began to twist and look around in worry. It spotted something and tore off across the table. A heroic leap from the edge sent it commando-rolling to a stop on the sofa.

"I can't see," Claire complained.

"Do. Not. Move," Dean warned, gripping her upper arm and holding her still.

She pouted but decided that being pressed up against Dean in the doorway of her home was not exactly the worst thing that could be happening. This thought was confirmed as the little person suddenly sprang back onto the table, into their field of view - heaving a television remote control with it.

"He's upgraded his weaponry," Dean grinned.

The form came back to the mass of twitching, shivering waxy goo still in the pizza box. It raised the remote control, ready to strike.

The mass suddenly shifted. Two legs snaked out and slammed into the smaller form's chest. It was knocked off its feet and the table itself.

"Ooh! You cheat!" Claire snarled.

The little one hit the floorboards but was already scrabbling to pick up the remote next to its head. It climbed to its feet just as the larger form appeared round the edge of the sofa. It advanced on the smaller one steadily, looking as if it had never touched cardboard.

"This is bad," Dean observed. "Oh no."

"What?" Claire hissed.

The smaller form twisted back. It uncurled and hammered the remote into the larger form. The blow swept it off its feet - but then it was getting back up again, marching on the smaller foe.

"He can't kill it. And he knows he can't," Dean said, sudden panic in his voice. "He's just going out swinging."

"Then help him!" she urged.

"With what?" Dean hissed. His eyes went around the room, desperately seeking anything to use as a weapon. "He spits on me, I melt, remember?"

"So does the little dude! Help him!"

Dean pushed her back out of the door. He rushed in and went to the kitchen.

The larger homunculus slewed its head round to look for the source of Dean's noise. The smaller figure stepped in and swung away. The remote pounded into the larger creature. It flew a whole foot through the air before bouncing down on its back.

"Yes!" Claire hissed.

Dean emerged from the kitchen, carrying a small red bottle. He unclipped the safety tag and yanked it out.

"A fire extinguisher?" Claire marvelled. "You're going to kill it with a _fire extinguisher_?"

"You got anything stronger?" he accused. He came forward.

The ten-inch villain was struggling to get off its back. It tipped over to its front and crawled to its hands and knees. Dean looked at the tinier form, just as it wiped the back of its forearm across its forehead. He grinned and then looked down at the larger creature. It was already on its feet and curling its fists. It sucked in a huge breath.

Dean thrust out the bottle and depressed the lever.

A bright white stream of foam shot straight into the larger homunculus' head. It was knocked backwards. Dean kept his thumb on the lever, walking closer, keeping the foam on the figure. Its arms pin-wheeled and flailed. Its feet slipped and skidded. It hissed and spat.

The gooey substance barely made it an inch before it was forced back into the head of the homunculus. It squealed and raged, its arms whirling faster.

The smaller form ran up and stood behind Dean's right leg, dragging the remote with it. It put a hand to the side of his jeans, peering around the safety shield, the little hollows in its head wide. Then it hefted the remote in both hands and came forward.

Dean looked down and let go of the lever. The smaller homunculus ran forward. It jabbed the heavy plastic weapon into the bigger enemy. It slipped in the foam and fell. It thrashed about, trying to get up. The smaller form lifted the remote and brought it down, beating at the larger one over and over.

Dean stepped back, but he was already looking around for something else. He ran to the kitchen.

The larger form squirmed out of the mountains of foam. It fell to its back. The remote came thundering down into its head again and again and again. It flailed as it the beating went on. And then it put up a hand and grabbed the remote control.

The smaller form tugged; the larger one held it steady. And then, very slowly, it got to its feet. It yanked the remote from the smaller figure's grasp. It turned it slightly. And then it swung it into the small homunculus.

It caught it in the gut. The little wax figure was sent flying across the room. It was pancaked into the skirting board just feet from the front door. Gravity peeled it slowly from the wood finish and it crumpled to the floorboards.

"No!" Claire protested, pushing the door open and flying in. She knelt and put her hands down, turning the creature over slowly. One finger went across the top of its head. Two slits in the head stretched open and the hollows were looking up at her. She stroked at its head again gently.

Four feet behind her, two stumpy legs brought the larger homunculus closer. It drew itself up, balled its fists, and began to take a deep breath.

Dean came out of the kitchen. He set a bucket on the floor. And then he raised a large garbage bag and a lid in his hands. He whistled and the homunculus jerked its attention to him. Dean's eyes narrowed. "Bring it on."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Sam ran up the stairs as fast as he could, making it to the open door. He raced in to find Claire crouched against the wall, her hands clutched together in fear. He looked left and found his brother involved in some strange dance that involved a feint forward and then a nimble leap back.

And a small homunculus, rushing in and out, poking and beating what it could with the remote control in its tiny hands.

Claire scuttled along the wall and closed the door behind the newest arrival. "They're trying to trap it," she said. "Help them!"

Sam simply let the duffle fall from his shoulder and unzipped it. He rooted around inside and produced a bottle of something faintly green. He shook it vigorously, as he heard his brother curse and spit epithets that would have turned the air blue, had he said them a little louder. Sam looked at Claire. "Got hairspray?"

"In the bedroom," she blurted. She got up and they darted around the strange pseudo bull-fighting performance. They piled into her bedroom and she snatched up a can. "Here - empty it," she said quickly. Sam took it from her and turned and disappeared. She went to the doorway and looked out.

All she could see was Dean and the smaller homunculus trying - without success - to somehow get the garbage bag over the larger one. It was spitting and growling, determined to kill. The smaller form had a chunk missing from its arm, Dean a burnt patch on the toe of his boot and a small hole in the side of the jeans close-by.

Sam came to a stop, lifting the can of hairspray. He fished in his pocket for a lighter.

The smaller homunculus suddenly tugged at Dean's jeans. He looked down and the tiny figure dropped the remote control. Confused, Dean watched as it pointed at the bag in the human's hands. Then it turned and threw itself at the larger being.

They collided in a ball of arms and legs and waxy determination. Dean stared. Then he rushed forward and slammed the bag down over both of them. He lifted it, raced to the bucket, and upended the bag into the pail. He picked up the lid and rammed it home quickly, putting his foot on top.

Sam just stood, stunned, until he managed to come over quickly. Strange squishy noises were mixed with furious splashing in the bucket. Sam looked down, mystified, as Claire came out of the bedroom doorway and pushed between them to look down.

"What's in there?" she dared.

"Water," Dean shrugged.

Sam looked at him. "Congratulations, you've trapped two homunculi," he said.

"Thanks," Dean said smugly.

"How do we get him out?" Claire said quickly. "We can't leave him in there! The other one will kill him!"

Dean looked at his brother expectantly. "Well? I had this under control after you ran off to change your panties. Now we have to separate the two of them before something happens to the little dude."

Sam's eyes took a deep breath, sighed, and then hurled themselves around his eyes sockets faster than a Coney Island 'coaster. "I was going to burn it," he said simply, raising the hairspray and the bottle of green liquid.

"With L'Oreal?" Dean countered.

"With wax solvent and alcohol," Sam said meaningfully.

"Oh," Dean allowed, suitably chastised. "Good thinking, Batman."

"All we have to do now is get them out without them killing anyone."

"Easy," Dean said, and if awkward forced cheer had been paint and not a tone of voice, he would have had enough to coat the Impala.

.


	7. Saving the Clay

**Seven**

**Saving the Clay**

.

"Right," Sam said, raising the lighter and the hairspray. He moved his thumb to the top of the can, ready to press. "When I say open it, you open it."

"I got it," Dean said a little irritably. He put his hands down to the bucket and lid. "Just don't burn my face off."

"Get your head back," Claire said, even as she backed away to a safe distance. "It might spit at you when the lid comes off."

"Good point," Dean allowed. He looked up at Sam before crouching. "Ready?"

"If you are," he said warily. They looked at each other for a long moment. Sam swallowed. "Open it."

Dean got as low as he could, putting his hand to one edge of the lid. He curled the edge open before ripping it clear. He shot back.

Nothing moved.

They eyed the bucket. Dean stayed back, but his boot went out and knocked at the base of the pail. It rocked slightly but otherwise, nothing shifted.

"You think they killed each other?" Claire whispered from her vantagepoint way behind Sam.

"It's possible," Sam breathed. He took a step closer. And then another one.

"Watch it!" Dean hissed.

Sam jumped slightly, then turned a vengeful look on his brother. Dean pointed to the bucket. Sam looked back down. He closed on the pail, stopping two feet away. He leant forward and looked down from more than six feet.

Two figures were floating in the water, halfway up the side of the bucket. The smaller one was gently bobbing with the slight movement of the cool liquid. Two slits in its head indicated its hollows for eyes were closed, but a large hollow showed its mouth to be open, as if forgotten about. The other form - larger, heavier, darker - was also floating, but there were no slits to indicate if it were alive or even the right way up.

"The little dude… I don't think he made it," Sam whispered.

Claire bit her lip. Dean let his shoulders sag.

The bucket threw itself over sideways. Water gushed out over the floor. Claire squeaked and sprang back. Sam did not move. His eyes searched the tidal waved sloshing round his boots for bodies. One was washed across the floor until it knocked gently against Dean's boot. He bent and checked it over before snatching it up, one hand around its back, one supporting its neck and head. It flopped in his hands, lifeless.

Sam took a cautious step back. His gaze scoured the floor as Dean retreated with the smaller homunculus. Claire leapt over the water, flying up to Dean's elbow and looking at the tiny creature in his hands.

"Is he dead?" she whispered.

Dean's head snapped to his left. "Sam!" he warned.

Sam pressed the hairspray and flicked the lighter into life. It turned the steady cloud of hair fixer into a fireball. He whirled with it and crouched. He caught a hot wet drip on his hand as the fire engulfed something in his path. He dropped the lighter and grabbed the solvent and alcohol mix from his pocket. The fireball squealed and bucked, sending the can and bottle of solvent and alcohol flying.

Claire skittered back as Sam leapt for the fallen bottle. Dean rushed after it, getting his boot to the rolling vessel filled with green liquid. He pushed and it flew back across the floor, into Sam's way. He grabbed it up.

Claire watched the ball of fire flail its arms and scream. It twisted and shook, hissed and squealed in agony. Sam yanked the lid from the greenish bottle. He splashed the contents directly onto the burning creature. Flames belched upwards and outwards as they fed eagerly on the liquid. The screaming ceased. The thrashing arms began to slow and fall to its sides. The legs melted and lost coherence. Its head began to lose shape, began to sink into the mass of sliding, splurging body that was starting to spread against the floorboards. The fire raged on but the mass was already a pool of goo, a puddle of something unholy, unhealthy and unable to keep shape. It relaxed in a disc of small flames, until the fire turned it black.

The flames died down slowly, but the three humans could do nothing but watch. Finally, the fire was extinguished through simple lack of food. A foot-wide mound of black powder was all that was left, sitting all alone on the floor, stared at and wondered over by its audience.

Sam went to it and crouched down, peering at it. "I think we're good."

Dean looked down at the small creature in his hands. "Not all of us."

Claire turned and came closer, bending to look closely at the small form. "Poor little guy," she said sadly, putting a hand out. She stroked at the chest carefully, as if afraid it would melt under her touch.

"Yeah," Dean allowed quietly. He looked over at Sam. "What just happened?"

Sam put his hands on his knees, pushing himself upright. "If I had to guess, I'd say… We were in the middle of a homunculus hunt. This one was after any others. It tracked that little one," he said, pointing to the still form in Dean's hands, "and tried to kill it."

"Why?" Claire asked. "Why kill Michael, and a cat?"

"Claire," Dean said quietly, looking at her. "How often do you have pizza?"

"Once a month, maybe," she shrugged. He frowned at her. "Alright, maybe twice," she admitted.

"Michael was killed two nights ago," Sam pointed out. "What were you doing two nights ago?"

"I came home," she said innocently. "Normally I stay late, finish up some stuff. Michael's comments usually appeared on my computer about an hour after I'd gone. This Friday I finished on time for a change - I came home."

Sam thought for a long moment. "You're normally there. Perhaps this little dude was there too, for some reason. What if he stayed late when you did, because he liked to be near you? Then you went home one Friday, he came looking for you, but the bigger one came looking for _him_. It found Michael instead and melted him down, then ran."

Dean tilted his head. "Why follow her home?" he asked.

"What?" Claire managed.

"Well if the little dude only saw you at work, why follow you home? He must have been here at some point, so the bigger one could follow him and find that cat instead."

"Maybe the cat surprised him. He melted it down and ran - then came back for the little dude the next night," Sam mused. He looked at Claire suddenly. "When you're working late, what do you do?"

"I… uhm… A lot of typing," she said, trying to think. "I listen to some music, eat chocolate, the usual."

Sam looked down at the little form in Dean's hands. He came over slowly, looking down at it. "Did you ever find some chocolate missing?"

"No," she said simply. "I did notice my apple disappeared once. I figured Michael had taken it."

"Well the little hero liked pineapple," Dean pointed out, looking at the lump in his hands. "Maybe he was a fruit nut."

"So he followed Claire home because she had fruit," Sam sighed.

"Well we're done here, anyhow," Dean said sadly. "Two homunculus things dead, and everyone safe."

"Except for him," Claire sighed. She put her hands out and wormed them under Dean's fingers, lifting the little creature. "It's so unfair. He was just trying to have a life."

"Yeah," Dean allowed, tipping his eyes at Claire. "Shame, really. I guess he came in through that import firm - he could have been trapped in a crate for… I don't know, years? Then one day he gets out, wanders into the new upstairs, finds you and your fruit, and follows you home. All he wanted to do was watch your TV and eat the topping off your pizza."

Sam looked around the room. "We'd better clean this place up. We should think about what to do with the remains. All of them," he said, turning to look back at the little figure in Claire's hands.

"I'll do this one," she said sadly. "I'll bury him."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance. Then they backed away, one going to the kitchen for a mop, the other looking for something to shovel up a few pounds of black grit and dust.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"So," Claire said, looking at the two men in her doorway. "Thanks for being pretend FBI agents. And thanks for saving me from being melted down." She pulled on Sam's arm, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Try to stay away from the downstairs neighbour for a while," he said wisely. "Are you sure you're ok with burying the little thing by yourself?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I'd kind of like to make sure he's at rest."

Sam eyed her. "What if it wakes up?"

"Sam, he ain't going to wake up," Dean interrupted. "He went God-knows-how-many-rounds with his evil overlord before he _drowned_. Just give the little guy a break, will you? He's dead, and he went out fighting."

Sam turned his large, suspicious eyes on his brother. Dean's chin stuck out and he lifted a single eyebrow. Sam's hands went to his waist and he huffed with sufficient lung capacity to blow over any homunculus in range. He looked at Claire. "And _you're_ sure?" he pressed.

She nodded. "Yes, I'm sure," she said firmly. "He's been in that box for the last three hours while we've cleaned up. And anyway, it's the least I could do for him - he did kind of try to save me." She put her hands out and pushed, and Sam found himself guided to the front door of the apartment. He looked at her, nodded a goodbye, and disappeared into the corridor. Claire turned deliberately to look at Dean. "If I asked you to keep my number, and call me when you're passing through town, would you do it?"

"Definitely," he said with a small smile. "We didn't get to watch the Special Features after that movie."

She stepped closer. "Thanks for… trying to save him." She stretched up and pushed a kiss into his lips, holding it for a long moment.

"Thank _you_," he said quietly. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, got to go. See you 'round."

"I hope so," she said. He smiled, rubbed at her arm, and then turned. She watched him walk out of the door and closed it softly behind him. She leant on it, taking a deep breath. Then she looked over at the cardboard shoebox on the table by the window. "Come on then," she told herself. "Time to bury the little hero."

She pushed herself up and went to the box. Her hand went to it before the lid gave a small kick. She jumped in fright - until the lid slid off sideways and the small creature inside sat up. Its slits blinked a few times in the light of a new morning, and then it opened them wide, looking up at the woman watching with absolute incredulity on her face.

"Well hello," she said, a smile spreading slowly. "We thought you were dead."

The little homunculus put its hands to the side of the box and pulled itself up, heaving over the edge and standing up straight. Claire just watched, unsure whether to be amazed or chagrined, as it gave a stretch with both arms. It swung its head around to survey the terrain, and then padded to the edge of the table. Its hands on its hips, it looked up at her, the hollows clearly leaning forward as if waiting for something.

"What?" she managed. "Oh. Thank you," she said impishly.

It waved its hands at her, then turned and pointed across the room to the large television set.

"Now?" she asked. "You just died - then woke up. _And_ it's Sunday breakfast - _and_ I haven't had any sleep."

It gave a firm nod before both of its hands raised to indicate its own head. She watched, and suddenly, tiny pointy ears formed themselves on each side. She laughed, and it let its hands drop and the ear-shapes morph back into its smooth head. It made a soft trilling noise and she put her hands in the air in surrender.

"_Star Trek_, then," she said. "Now, before we start, there are some house rules. One, no stealing my pizza _base_. You can have all the pineapple."

It nodded, its hands going to its sides.

"Two, I choose the movie - unless you tell me what you want."

Again, it nodded.

"And three, you cannot let _anyone_ know you're living here, understand? If anyone finds out, they might try to harm you. And I don't want anyone to harm you. Got that?"

It stretched up a little taller, puffing out its chest and lifting its arms, curling them as if to show off biceps. She giggled, then pointed to the television.

"Ok, let's go. Which _Star Trek_ do you want? I've got all eleven and six series," she said.

It leapt off the table and ran across the floor, sliding to a stop by the bookcase. It climbed up the side with amazing agility before kneeling on the top. Its hands went either side of it to grip the wood and then its head went down, affording it a good view of the DVD and Blu-Ray titles beneath. She turned to the stove and checked there was water in the kettle before turning on the heat underneath.

"Coffee first," she said, coming out of the kitchen and stopping by the sofa. "You want anything to drink?" The little homunculus looked up and its head twisted from side to side. She grinned. "Well? Which movie?"

It shuffled over and tapped at the spine of a DVD. She came over and slid it out, smiling. "Ah, _Star Trek VI_. I like this one. Lots of pointy ears and ridged foreheads."

She took it to the player and left the box on top, going back to the kitchen and making herself a large mug of instant coffee. She picked up a small, sharp knife and dropped it into the fruit bowl, carrying everything into the front room and putting them down on the recently bleached side table.

"Now-. Oh," she said, looking up to find the tiny person already fighting with the disc as wide as his arms could reach, dropping it into the tray on the player. She giggled, shaking her head. "This is going to take some getting used to."

It sprang back and pressed the eject button, making the tray slide into the machine and take the disc with it. Then it turned and ran back to the sofa. It leapt up to get its hands to the edge and then swung itself up onto the soft surface. She sat down slowly, putting the bowl of fruit between them. She picked up the knife, slicing a thin wedge of apple from the first item in the bowl. She handed it to the little creature, who took it carefully before lounging back into the seat.

She put the rest of the fruit down and sat back, picking up the remote that smelt faintly of bleach. Then she looked at the small person.

"What do we call you?" she asked. It looked up at her, blinking its hollows in confusion. "Hmmm… Clay?" she asked. "Like that dude in the '_Friday 13__th_' horror movie? The last 24 hours have kind of felt like that."

It looked at the television, gave a huge shrug that communicated just how little it all mattered, and then took a bite of the apple slice.

She grinned and shifted, turning to look at the television. Her mobile phone gave a gentle _ping_ and she looked over, finding it far away by the front door. She got up and retrieved it, sliding it to unlock the screen and read the message that presented itself.

'_Don't let him sit too close to the TV. His eyes might actually go square. Dean._'

She grinned, switched the phone to silent, and settled back to watch the movie that was beginning to unfold in front of her. Two feet to her right, the little homunculus was already shuffling closer to the fruit bowl, its little hand stealthily going for the rest of the apple.

.

**FIN**

.

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><p><em>Thanks for your patience and your reviews! They're all very much appreciated!<em> :)


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